


seafoam & sunshine

by orphan_account



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harvest Moon: Sunshine Islands, Fairy Tale Elements, Farmer Thor, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Little Mermaid Elements, M/M, Mer loki, Non-Chronological, Slice of Life, Witch Princess Loki
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Loki has lived on the Sunshine Islands for 12 years, with nothing but his books, his cauldron, and his vast collection of dangerous magical ingredients to keep him company.It's a solitary life, and for Loki, it's perfect....That is, until Thor moves in.Or, a series of loosely interconnected oneshots revolving around the daily life of Witch Princess Loki and his ever-popular farmer, Thor.





	1. in the call of the tide (is where i'll find you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the Sunshine Islands' annual Fireworks Festival, and Loki decides he wants to take a peek.

It slips out before Loki can stop himself.

Summer is coming to an end. The islanders, as they do every year, sail their boats to Meadow Island with bags and buckets full, and Loki, for he is only one of them when their desire for his magic outweighs superstitious fear, is not invited.

They will dance and drink and feast till the moon too is round and fat with merriment, cast their fairy lights skyward and launch explosions in their wake, stumble like drunkards, fall ankle over knee to the sands, laugh and giggle and swing their unwieldy limbs, and in each other’s embrace, they will trek to the sea and their boats and wash their passions in brine and lust, and Loki will not be invited.

Nay, he does not  _want_  to be invited; the relative solitude of Mystic Island is a good and happy life for him. True, it has been fairly…interrupted as of late, and true, the cause of these disruptions hasn’t exactly  _displeased_  him, but there lies the difference between a visitor and a neighbor, and Loki is determined the line shant be crossed.

Which is why, naturally, he goes to the festival.

Thor spoke highly of it. Loki has lived on the Sunshine Islands longer than him by a dozen fold, but Thor had chittered and chattered and nattered away about the annual Fireworks Festival, the lights and the feast and the bonfire dance, and it would be terribly rude of Loki if he didn’t at least see what Thor was talking about for himself, right?

Right.

So as the fall of evening dawns, Loki forgoes his normal ritual of curling up with a book beneath his window and instead steals away into the shadows, stowing away in the corner of a boat headed towards Meadow Island. He slips past just as the boat docks, no more than a small breeze along the island’s frawns, and takes his post on an outcrop of rock upon the cliffs by the sea.

…And then Thor had spotted him and Loki might’ve gotten a little jealous—envious? The slight nuance to that definition is a tad too telling to admit to the world—and now he’s quite sure he’s botched it all.

Like he said before: it slips out before Loki can stop himself.

_“Do you say that to all those other women, too?”_

Loki cringes immediately after he says it. Goddess above, he wants to sink into the sand and  _die_.

“Only the witches,” Thor says after a beat.

Loki lifts his head. “And,” he says, startling himself, “do you meet a lot of those in your line of work?”

Stupid stupid stupid stupid stu—

“Just the one,” says Thor. “I guess you could say they’ve… _bewitched_  me.”

The laugh slips out of him like a punched-out cork. Loki immediately covers his mouth, but it’s too late—Thor’s already heard it and now he’s grinning, all wide and charming with that wicked curve to his mouth that  _does things_  to Loki’s stomach.

It’s all—flippy, yes, like his heart’s sumersaulted its way into his throat and can’t quite make its way out.

Which.  _Good_. Loki does not want his heart to make any more slips. Loki does not want his heart  _anywhere near_  his mouth, thank you very much, and would in fact prefer he be able to swallow it down like a particularly unpleasant potion sludge.

“That was terrible,” he says in an attempt to salvage himself, but it’s a weak, flimsy thing. The seconds had passed by all too telling and Thor  _knows_  now.

“Ah, but you laughed.”

Thor siddles closer and bumps their shoulders together. Loki can barely breathe.

“It was a pity laugh,” Loki says, “barely, if even. You didn’t deserve it.”

“Points for effort?”

Thor smiles down at him, all puppyish and eager. Loki thinks he could take a spoon to it and eat it right up—just scoop the sweet and plump and lovely right off of Thor’s lips. His mouth goes dry at the thought.

“Solid 3,” Loki says. Thor brightens. “Out of 100.”

Thor pouts. It’s not a look that lasts for long.

“And what do I get when I reach 100?” he asks huskily. “It’s a tall task you’re asking for, you know, and  _I_  heard you were the fairest of them all.”

Even in the chill of the sea breeze, Loki can feel the press of Thor’s heat against his clothes, solid and inviting as only a landwalker could be. No, even more—Thor is a farmer, one beloved beneath the sun after all, and it’s obvious in the way his hand, roughened from field work, firmly cups the back of Loki’s neck and still does not fail to feel as warm, safe,  _demanding_  as the planetary body it pays its worship to.

He’s never been so annoyed with his high-collared gossamer silk robes before. As fantastic as it feels against his skin, it also means that there’s far too many layers separating him and Thor right now.

Loki finally finds his voice. The murmur of the festivities, once so loud, is now a near background hum in the back of his mind.

“Take a guess,” he murmurs.

“Perhaps a wish?” Thor’s hand squeezes. “Ah, but I would wish the same every time. Let me take you on a date.”

“100 points,” Loki says, “and not one sooner.”

Thor leans close. Presses their foreheads together. Loki might die—just melt right back into the sea, and no one would ever be the wiser.

Thor speaks before that.

“I’ll get you your 100 points, little witch, but before then, perhaps a kiss?”

Loki pauses. Looks up from beneath his eyelashes that he knows are long and pretty, that make his eyes turn soft and kittenish. He hears Thor inhale, that sharpened breath, and smiles something wicked.

“I’ll think about it.”

On the next rush of waves to crash against the cliffside, Loki leaves with them, becoming one with the sea foam.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey
> 
> *opens coat jacket*
> 
> u want sum fluff


	2. love's true kiss (will break the spell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor gets into a bit of a furry situation, and naturally, goes to Loki for help.
> 
> Thor's lucky he's cute.

“So let me get this straight,” Loki says, “You caught a strange-looking fish, ate it, and turned into a rabbit.”

Thor at least has the decency to flop his ears back and look somewhat ashamed.

Loki takes that as, ‘Well, _yes_ , but the stew was delicious.’

Loki sighs. It’s not as if Thor often gets into trouble…until he gets into trouble. Loki’s going to get grey hairs at this point. This is the third time Thor’s been cursed into something or other and Loki’s getting real tired of brewing counter-curse potions all day.

He should start charging for them. More than he’s already asking for, that is.

In his defense, Thor makes for a cute rabbit. Loki watches as his tiny button nose wrinkles and his wide bunny eyes gaze imploringly up at him. His speckled ginger coat looks dangerously soft and pettable. Loki wants to pick him up and never put him down. It’s not just dangerous, it’s temptation incarnate, and Loki is weak to things he wants.

The fact that Thor is standing here right now, in his shop, in his home, cursed for eating a creature of _Loki’s_ domain and still living to tell the tale is proof of that.

“Loki,” Thor says, ears long and atwitch, “ _Please_.”

“The Wicked Witch of Mischief,” Loki mutters. “More like the Wicked Witch of _Cleaning Up Your Mess_.”

“I don’t mess up _that_ often!”

“21st Annual Cooking Festival,” Loki says immediately.

Thor’s cute and round face visibly falls.

“We don’t speak of that,” he grouches, but it’s a little hard to take seriously when pouting has _always_ been a good look on Thor, bunny or no.

Loki succumbs to temptation and casually pats his furry head. Oh, definitely as soft as he thought it would be.

“I’ll get the cauldron. Sit still and wait patiently this time, won’t you?”

Thor grumbles and sniffs, but he _does_ get onto the pillow Loki magically conjures and he _does_ begin to eat the leafy greens Loki has so kindly supplied.

Hm. Perhaps if Thor is turned into a dog next, there would be merit in keeping him that way a little longer and taking him to obedience classes. It would be quite the hilarious thing indeed to have him running about, fetching Loki’s ingredients for him so he doesn’t have to take one foot out of the house…

He’ll think on it.

The task of brewing counter-curse potions is not so much difficult for Loki as it is tedious. Thor is fortunate he was cursed by the sea this time; it lets Loki skip a few steps—mostly in identifying what curse plagues him to begin with—and his familiarity with the type of magic in question does a decent amount to raise his initial brewing success rate. Most of the ingredients he has in stock, but a few he must venture out to the other islands for. He tells Thor to stay put and slips away.

By the time Loki returns, the sun has reached halfway through its journey to the horizon. Thor is not on his pillow.

Given that, his workshop is surprisingly intact.

Loki wanders the house with moderated, increasingly panicked steps. His home—at least the portions that a landwalker like Thor could access—is not large. He quickly reaches the last room to check: his bedroom, the door left ajar.

Loki peeks in, and lo and behold, a soft, speckled, cashmere lop is sprawled in the center of his bed, napping away among the pillows. For a second, Loki is tempted to march right over, grab Thor by the ears and ring his little bunny neck for almost giving him a heart attack, but. Well…

He looks awfully comfortable…

Loki’s shoulders fall. He _is_ feeling rather tired, now that he thinks about it. Maybe just a short nap before he resumes brewing. Yes, that sounds good.

With more care than he’ll ever admit, Loki shifts the flopped out Thor to make room for himself and crawls into bed. Thor is like a tiny little furnace in this form, a luxuriously soft and heated plush toy, and Loki cannot resist pulling him close to his chest and curling up.

His bed is large and piled with pillows and blankets alike: perfect for lounging, but also perfect for making a small Loki-sized nest in the center. It makes him sleepier than a cup of chamomile ever could.

Before he drifts off completely, Loki nuzzles his cheek against the crown of Thor’s head and presses a not-entirely-conscious kiss there. It’s silk on his lips, fur tickling his nose. Cozy.

Safe.

And just like that, Loki dozes off.

* * *

Loki wakes to his face smushed against a pillow and another in his arms. He blinks, dizzy, and lifts his head to listen to the murmur of voices that’d originally woken him.

Oh, that’s Thor’s voice. Loki’s head drops back onto the pillow.

…Wait a second. _Thor?_

Rabbits don’t talk with their voices. Most animals don’t—it’s all in the body language, and Loki can’t even begin to explain the nuancy to _that_ , only that if a rabbit was trying to speak to him from across the house, he could definitely not hear him, and Thor should (at this point in time) most certainly be a rabbit.

Right???

Loki’s still trying to solve that mystery when Thor walks straight through the door of his bedroom, on two very human legs, humming with very human vocal chords, holding what must be a bag of very human goods.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Thor says.

Loki sniffs. He smells fresh bread.

“It worked, by the way,” continues Thor, wearing a delighted grin. “Imagine my surprise when I woke up human again!”

What.

Loki’s quite sure the potion is still sitting unfinished in his cauldron. He didn’t even prep the next ingredients before passing out yesterday. Unless he sleepwalked to his workshop, finished brewing a complex counter-curse more than half asleep, and then still had the mind to come and give Thor the potion without waking him…

“You slept the entire day after, by the way,” Thor says. “It’s Tuesday. Everyone was very concerned about you, so they gave me some gifts to pass along.”

Loki blinks, slow. This is all very surreal.

“Here.”

Thor passes over a warm jar swathed in a cotton cloth. Loki takes it for lack of any better response and stares down at it. His hands are the temperature of a mild fever having been buried in the blankets for so long, but the jar is warmer still.

The cloth has a pattern of miniature cows, all doing various ridiculous things like painting, dancing, drinking coffee, accepting an award for 1st Place in the Annual Cow Competition...

There’s a tag keeping it all wrapped up. Loki gingerly picks it up and reads,

_Get well soon, Mr. Loki! -Love, Peter and May_

“That’s from the Parkers,” Thor says. “They told me it was their signature hot chocolate. And there’s some soup from the Udaku family, too. You’re probably hungry—I’ll go get a bowl.”

Thor makes to leave.

Loki sets down the hot chocolate and says, “Thor, come here.”

Thor blinks in surprise, but he walks over anyway. Loki takes his head in his hands and pulls him down closer so they’re near level, and then he takes a good, _long_ look at Thor’s forehead.

There’s just the briefest spark of a remnant magic there, green and familiar and _oh_.

“Oh,” Loki breathes.

“Oh? What—ow! Loki!” Thor cries, falling in a heap on the floor.

Loki, as far as he’s concerned, deems this day far too embarrassing and wants to head right back to sleep. He burrows into his nest again and turns around, tugging a stray pillow to his chest.

“Go away, Thor. Shop's closed,” says Loki. Of course, because his face is buried in a pillow, it’s not guaranteed Thor understands what he means.

Evidently, he does not. Loki feels the mattress dip under the weight of Thor’s knee, and then a big, rough hand settles on the bone of his hip. Thor noses at his shoulder.

“Don’t be angry,” Thor murmurs. “I only told them you’d caught a minor cold. You looked exhausted, and I couldn’t let you work in that condition.”

Loki makes a sound. It may or may not have resembled a dying whale.

“No one thinks any less of you.”

Thor is so _stupid_. Why does Loki love him?

There are millions of fish in the sea, and Loki could’ve turned any one of them into a lover worth taking. Instead, he falls in love with a landwalker who’s too thoughtful and sweet for Loki’s own good. Loki’s heart is going to get diabetes. He, the Witch Princess of the Seven Seas, is going to die a diabetic and his reputation will never recover from the blow.

This is the worst day ever.

“I hate you,” Loki says. “Ten points.”

He feels Thor’s hand go stiff, and then Thor is scrambling, sliding under the covers and curling around Loki like a particularly needy sea slug. It’s ridiculous. Loki is going to get sick for real like this. He’s going to get a fever and then Thor’s going to tell the entire village and they’ll never buy a potion again because _haha, the Witch Princess got sick, can’t even brew their own cures_ —

Thor nuzzles his shoulder. “Love you too,” he says.

"You better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mermaids nest
> 
> This has been an important PSA from yours truly


	3. cycle me back (to the start)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, how Loki meets Thor.

On the 4th day of summer, it rains.

Not just rain—Loki lifts his head skyward and inhales. The scent of ozone stings in his nostrils, and in the distance, he can hear the faint rumble of thunder.

It’ll be quite the storm, it seems.

“How disastrous,” Loki mutters. But it can’t be helped—even the Sunshine Islands, known for their good weather, must face the brunt of nature at some point.

It is, quite simply, the cycle of life. For life to flourish, there must be death. Loki is the Witch of the Sea—he is not its protector, and that is not his responsibility. If Mother Ocean sought a guardian, she wouldn’t have chosen the victor of what essentially amounts to a _death match_ for a champion. Simple.

Still, there’s something to be said about how quickly Loki throws on a cloak and heads towards the beach.

Half of Loki—most certainly the half borne to the sea—cringes away. She wants to go back to the safety of the house, curl up on the chaise or the bed or the bath and doze until the storm passes. Mother Ocean is not kind to her children; she is fair above all, and the churning waters will spare no victim unprepared. Loki knows this.

But the Witch in him lies restless.

The boundary between land and sea grows murky when it rains—when it storms, especially. His skin crawls and his muscles ache, his blood runs hot and his flesh turns cold. Loki _yearns_ , but for which world, he cannot say.

As he approaches the sand, Loki kicks off his boots and sheds layer after layer of his robes until he stands in nothing but a loincloth. The thin layer billows in the wind swan-white, and though a shower of rain quickly begins to fall, the cloth remains as free-flowing as the storm about to overtake them.

Loki casts his gaze out towards the sea and extends his magic. The least he can do is fortify his island’s coral reef. Many fish will perish still, but as long as their ecosystem can survive—

Wait. Loki squints. There’s something floating in on the horizon.

Thunder, once distant, crackles in his ear. For that single brief second, the lightning illuminates the sea, and Loki sees—

A boat.

Loki curses. “Which village idiot is swimming in on _that_?”

But it really is just a boat. Loki doesn’t see anyone rowing it—or even an oar at all. Perhaps it had loosened from Verdure Island’s dock and floated all the way over to Mystic Island. If that’s the case, Loki might as well go fetch it before it crashes into the reefs.

He steps into the sea foam and lets the receding tide carry him back out.

As his legs fuse to a tail and the very structure of his bones reorganize themselves, Loki spares a moment to grimace. Being in his maiden form when the maid herself refuses the sea is slightly…unsettling. However, it _is_ his body still, one he knows better than any other, and after a few twists and turns to accustom himself, Loki begins to swim towards where he last saw the boat.

Already, the waters have grown rough. It’s slower progress than he originally thought it would be, so with a quick turn of tail, Loki dives deeper into more comfortable waters. His home is far below still, but at least here the rumbling thunder is muted and the churning waters less turbulent.

Aaand it seems Loki spoke too soon.

Lightning strikes the surface of the sea. Loki feels it rattle around him and shudders. Perhaps it would be better if he just lets the boat cra—

A jagged piece of wood nearly stabs his eye out. Loki twists out of the way in the nick of time and scans the waters above. It only takes a moment for him to find a crowd of similar debris floating at the surface and he puts two-and-two together.

The lightning hit the boat. Well then.

Seems like _that_ particular problem’s solved.

Just as he’s about to swim back to shore, Loki notices a dark shape not too far away. It doesn’t look like a plank of wood, certainly, and sinks far faster than one. Actually, if he squints, it kind of looks like—

“A landwalker,” he realizes. And then, “I'm going to save it, aren't I.”

Loki calls a cloak of water about him and surges forward. He beckons the sea to push the human in his direction with some modicum of success, and fortunately it’s enough. The human is a lot bigger and heavier than he’d looked from far away, but there’s little time to think on it—Loki slips his hands under the human’s arms and pulls with all his strength.

They breach the surface together, but the human is deadweight in his arms. Loki curses.

Somehow, they make it back to shore.

* * *

In a cove well-hidden by the cliffs lies a cave Loki knows will be protected from the tumultuous tides. He lugs the human through the maze of outcroppings, claws his way past until he can no longer feel the beat of rain against his face.

Then, Loki unceremoniously tosses the body to land and drapes himself across the rocks, chest heaving. _That_ was not a journey he wants to go through again.

He looks over. The human isn’t breathing.

Loki groans and forces himself all the way out of the water.

His tail is nowhere near as light on land as it feels in the sea; it’s long enough that the end still remains submerged even as his upper torso looms over the human. Loki is rather sure landwalkers should be leagues warmer than this. They hadn’t been in the water for overly long, but he can feel the body’s temperature and it’s almost as cold as _him_.

Loki squints. All he sees is one yellow blur. And in this weather, there’s little to no light to speak of filtering through the cavern entrance.

Well, desperate times and what not. Loki settles beside the human and turns its cheek towards him before leaning down. A soft, red glow overtakes his palms, his arms, his chest, his cheeks, and then a much stronger light flickers into existence from the two headlights extending from his crown. _Finally_ , Loki can see.

Ah, so that’s the problem. With a short incantation, he siphons the sea water from the human’s lungs and replaces it with breath. The human immediately begins to cough. Loki leans back, but after the coughing fit subsides, the human falls to rest again.

A reflex, most likely. Hmm.

Loki leans close again. He’s rather handsome, this landwalker; scruffy, and clearly ill-taken care of with his hair poorly sheered, but beneath the grime there’s something that draws the eye. The longer Loki looks, the longer he can’t seem to pull himself away.

It’s odd. His chest throbs curiously, not unlike the way it does when the sea calls him home.This human—this landwalker—

Something about him feels familiar.

Outside, the rain falls in a barrage of one continous sheet. Thunder grumbles its way overhead, a foreboding murmur, and Loki doesn’t need to be a witch to tell that the storm isn’t leaving soon.

The human is cold. He’ll need to warm him.

But before Loki can cast another incantation, the human’s eyes flicker open. They blink at each other for one slow moment, blue to pearlescent white, before Loki jerks back and yanks the consciousness right from his mind.

The landwalker goes out like a light.

That was too close for comfort. Loki glares down at him disdainfully.

“Now, what in the Seven Seas am I going to do with _you_?”

The human, of course, doesn’t answer.

* * *

When the storm finally ends, the residents of Sprout Island find a very curious thing indeed: a large, blond-haired man had washed up on the shore.

No one’s quite sure how he survived for so long, but his lungs still fill with breath, and when they make to move him, his mouth still parts and groans. They take him to the inn and alert the other villagers a short bridge away. Soon, everyone knows of the mysterious, rather handsome man who’d come in with the storm.

When he wakes, they ask him what his name is.

Word eventually makes it back to Loki. Whether by coincidence or irony both, the human calls himself “Thor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [black dragonfish are the cutiepies of the deep sea](https://oceana.org/sites/default/files/8.jpg)
> 
> [just](https://cdn.importantmedia.org/planetsave/uploads/2014/07/26061846/image23.jpg)
> 
> [look](https://media.gettyimages.com/photos/scaless-black-dragonfish-is-a-deep-sea-fish-picture-id108213106)
> 
> [at](https://rollingharbour.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/scaleless-black-dragonfish-lge-jpg.jpg)
> 
> [them](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uHMllS_S7MA/WJhT-VL8G8I/AAAAAAAAQlU/zfvayV-uoHElOogUZmTlryZiHEhl6YqlQCLcB/s1600/threadfin_dragonfish.jpg)
> 
> beautiful glow babies :')


	4. she and the seashells [i.]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's harvest season, and the end of a cycle.

With the arrival of harvest season, Thor visits less and less.

Between caring for his animals, tending to his crops, and running the necessary errands in town, there’s little time to spend for much else—especially not a boat ride all the way to Mystic Island. There are only so many hours in a day, and only so many of them can be spent in the light of the sun.

Loki knows this, just as he knows he doesn’t like it. But he has little choice, consumed with his own affairs. There’s been an itch building beneath his skin ever since the last solstice, the thrum of a siren’s call singing through his blood. He can feel the anticipation rising from the pit of his navel, the tug, the pull—it will be soon, Loki thinks. Soon, he will go home.

This is the cycle of the Witch of the Sea, Mother Ocean’s bid that what was taken from her be returned.

(He will not see Thor again until the Fall Equinox is but a distant memory—a short time for the Witch, much longer for a mortal.

And Thor, Loki knows, is very, very mortal.)

(It’s a shame.)

And so, when the urge grows too great, Loki strips away the layers of cloth comprising his robe until he is nearly nude: only a loincloth remains, secured about his waist by a chain of gold and pearls. Its length spills along the floor in a mere mockery of a tail—white, of course; the color those humans call _pure_.

For Loki, it represents the shroud of mist and foam he will soon cast off.

He pulls one layer of cloth from the heap at his legs to wrap about his arms. The shawl sits light, low on his shoulders, and the feel of silk makes him want to both shiver and twirl around.

Loki isn’t quite sure if it’s time to leave yet, but he knows he can be rather fickle with the turn so near. He locks up the shop just in case, closes all the curtains and uses his magic to clean and tuck everything away. It’s a good use of all the pent up energy, but even that soon grows boring.

He needs fresh air—the sky, the stars, the _sea_.

CLOSED INDEFINITELY, the sign in Loki’s hands read. He hangs it on the front door and spells a nasty surprise for anyone seeking further entry. Then, task finished, Loki strides into the woods, a trail of white silk billowing behind him.

To the sea, he thinks, and the sea whispers back, to home. To home.

* * *

The sand is soft beneath her feet, but Loki is quick: her footfalls are softer, her heels never once touch the ground. What traces there are of her will soon be washed away with the rising of the tide, and it will be as if she had never been there.

Along the boundary of land and sea, Loki dances.

The waves roll out, leaving wet sand clinging to her feet. And as the waves roll in, the grains slips away. On every spin her heels kiss the water, and on every leap the water splashes a little higher. Soon, soon, soon—home soon, home—but not yet, no; not time yet. It is the time for blessings, for worship, for dance.

Sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle; sometimes flirty, sometimes wistful; Loki feels almost like a nymph again: a young water sprite barely in her hundredth year, born beautiful and free. And the sea breeze, that spirited thing—it tosses her shawl to the winds, a sail in the horizon. Only her fingertips tie it here in a strand-thin connection.

For a moment, she is a creature of the sky: wings of silk, hair of feathers, the curve of her figure divine. But the waves roll in, her feet splash and kick, and the bird in her gives itself to the sea.

Land is but a concept. The ocean—its reach is everywhere.

Loki feels herself fading. Her chest aches. Her heart yearns. The itch grows into a burning sensation, and not even her dance—this plea for mercy, a tribute and a release—can soothe it. She thinks her very flesh may shed like a snake’s skin, peel away so her true self might slip out and slither back into the ocean’s safe, familiar depths.

(Thor.)

She closes her eyes and lets go. The gossamer silk shawl is lost forever, gone yonder out to sea.

She should go, too. Mother Ocean is waiting for her. Her whole body throbs in a constant, persistent pain.

It almost feels like a heartbeat.

( _Thor_.)

“— _Loki_!”

Yes, she breathes, her body a voice. Yes. To home.

To—

“ _Loki!_ _What are you—why are you out in this weather, it’s freezing!_ ”

Cold? No, she feels fine. The deep ocean is far colder than this, and—

Wait.

( _Thor!_ )

“Loki!”

Someone grabs her shoulder and spins her around. Loki blinks. She knows this creature.

It’s Thor.

He looks…there’s a deep furrow between his brows, the etch of a frown in his eyes and his cheeks and his mouth. That’s no good. Loki’s sure landwalkers wear happiness differently than that.

Unhappy. And worried. Thor’s hand squeezes, and that’s the only warning Loki gets as she’s pulled into his embrace.

The scratch of his cotton shirt feels uncomfortable against her bare skin. She shifts, pulling back a little, and Thor—

Thor lets go. He lets go as if he’d _burned her_ , not as if he’d given her an only slightly uncomfortable experience. Loki would bear with a lot more for Thor. At least, she thinks she would. She thinks she _should_.

Her skin itches. The sea calls.

“Are you—” Thor swallows, “—Are you…leaving?”

“I suppose so,” Loki says. She hopes that’s what she’d usually say. Thor shouldn’t worry. She’ll only be gone for a little while—the cycle will inevitably bring her ‘round again, and then perhaps…perhaps…

What does she usually want again, with Thor?

“Oh,” Thor says. His head falls, and it’s almost, almost enough. For the time between seconds, Loki wants to _stay_ , if only to make everything that Thor thinks is wrong right again.

But how would that make anything better. Should she suffer for something as small as a landwalker’s _feelings_? They’re such simple creatures, living on whimsy and trivial delights. Thor will be fine. He’ll eat a meal and feel right as rain. But nature, nature cannot be obstructed, and Loki’s nature says it’s time to _go_.

The sea is calling. Water to her ankles, toes dug in the sand. She’s sure she loves him, this Thor, but what is love to Mother Ocean? What is love to the Witch Princess, whose legs are two where tail should be one, whose world light where there should be dark?

It is against her nature to stand on the sand.

“Have I—have I done something wrong? To upset you?”

Loki raises a hand to Thor’s cheek and strokes with her thumb, but no heart beats in her chest to pour affection into the action.

“I am a child of the sea,” she says, “and when it beckons, I must return.”

He doesn’t understand. A landwalker, of course, never could.

“Farewell, Thor Odinson,” says Loki. She bids him with her hands to bend and there, presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

The waves roll out. And this time, so too does she.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh


End file.
